Letting Go: A Lifetime of Practice
Target practice / photo Stephen Newton
“The right shot at the right moment does not come because you do not let go of yourself. You do not wait for fulfillment, but brace yourself for failure.”
― Eugen Herrigel, Zen in the Art of Archery
The solemnity and grace of kyūdō, the Japanese martial art of archery, prepares the archer for mushin no shin, or no-mind, an ego-less state of mind that is achieved through constant practice of the art. My earliest memory of witnessing mushin did not involve the martial arts, but rather, an incident between my father and my two-month-old brother, Kevin.
We were all seated at the table for dinner, when Kevin, who was in his high chair next to our father, somehow lifted the tray and fell. My father caught him with one hand mid-fall, inches above the floor. It was an astonishing act.
“The shot will only go smoothly when it takes the archer himself by surprise.”
― Eugen Herrigel, Zen in the Art of Archery
I first experienced mushin at seventeen. I had been practicing Judo for more than a year, when my instructor asked me to go to the center of the dojo where I was to be attacked by several other students. One after the other, they came at me, and one by one I countered their attacks—without thinking. The feeling was exhilarating.
At thirty-four, I became a student of Tae Kwon Do, a Korean martial art that features fighting techniques that employ both hand strikes and kicking techniques. During my fifteen years of study, I began to incorporate the state of mushin in other aspects of my life. But during a tournament, I suffered a detached retina and was forced to retire.
A few years later, at 55, I joined an iaido dojo to learn the art of Japanese swordsmanship, which was less combative and more like a moving meditaion. I continued practicing until I turned 65 and moved to southern Appalachia, where there were no iaido schools.
And then on my seventy-eighth birthday, I took up archery. Since then, I have continued to practice thirty-minutes a day, weather permitting. I’m still learning to let go.
Today, archery balances my life as a writer and filmmaker, both of which require me to follow my instincts. When I am at my best, my actions flow without thought. To hit the target, my body and mind must become one with my bow. To write well, I must remove myself from the process and not interfere. The words are my arrows, the empty page my target. I am not in control. It is.
This is me at 43 training at Master David Burns’ Tae Kwon Do dojang in 1986.
—Stephen Newton